


Dangerous Habits

by marmolita



Series: Matt Murdock's Bad Habits [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Hook-Up, Knifeplay, M/M, Matt works out his guilt issues through violent sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, S&M, Spanking, Under-negotiated Kink, Violent Sex, this is only barely a crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 19:59:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5598946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marmolita/pseuds/marmolita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Matt is laid up with an injury that stops him from going out as Daredevil, he finds a different way to deal with the guilt of listening every night to the cries of a city he can't help.</p><p>NOTE: This is the crossover version.  For a version with an OC instead, see <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5399522">this fic</a>.  This can be read as a sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3872779">Scratching the Itch</a> or as a standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dangerous Habits

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this for a secret santa, and then before the reveal date discovered that my recipient hates crossovers. It's only barely a crossover, but I changed it to an OC for the secret santa (which you can read [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5399522) if you prefer). But this is the original version, as I imagined it! The only thing really relevant here from Arrow is that Oliver Queen looks like [this](http://iamfuckingbornthisway.tumblr.com/post/53048254205/arrow). If you're an Arrow fan, this takes place sometime in season 2.
> 
> Warnings: see the tags, but basically the big ones are under-negotiated kink and knifeplay.
> 
> Original prompt [here](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/2760.html?thread=4500936#cmt4500936).

"Goddamn motherfucking-- _fuck!_ " Matt rubbed at his thigh where he'd just run into the corner of his desk, relieved that he couldn't feel blood seeping through his pants. Still, that was going to leave a nice bruise, just right to match the seventeen other bruises on his thighs from making this exact same mistake.

"You okay, buddy?" Foggy asked from somewhere over his shoulder. Matt could feel the dim vibrations of Foggy's footsteps coming closer through his feet, the muted echo of them bouncing off his ears asymmetrically and giving him a headache when he tried to focus on it too hard.

"Yeah, fine," Matt muttered, careful to keep his hand on the edge of the desk as he came around the side and sat down in his chair, wincing. "Remind me how long the doctor said this would take to heal?"

"Six to eight weeks. Life's a bitch, man. Maybe next time don't let someone _fire a gun an inch from your fucking ear._ "

"I don't need the lecture, Foggy."

"Good, because Karen will be back with our lunch any minute and I'd hate to have to cut one of my brilliant lectures short." Matt pulled a post-it off his pad, crumpled it up, and tried to throw it in Foggy's general direction, but Foggy just laughed. "Missed me by a mile, dude."

"Don't get too cocky, I can still trip you with my cane." Foggy backed out of the office, laughing, and Matt sighed and ran his fingers over his laptop's refreshable braille display. Being out of commission for nearly two months for a goddamn ruptured eardrum was going to suck big time, but at least he could still do his work.

***

Focusing on his job worked for about three weeks, before Matt started to get antsy. After four weeks, he was irritable. His hearing was starting to come back, but only having one ear at 100% made him off balance enough that it was still too dangerous to go out as Daredevil.

By five weeks, Matt was starting to remember what life had been like before he donned the mask. Anger and frustration clawed under his skin in a way they hadn't in years, mixing with more and more guilt the longer he went without punching a criminal's face in, the longer he spent listening to sirens and screams he couldn't do anything about. He hit the gym almost every night, punching the bag until his knuckles bled, but it just wasn't the same.

Foggy was starting to notice, too. Matt couldn't say how exactly he knew, but he could tell that Foggy was watching him, opening his mouth to say something and then closing it again silently. He could feel the weight of Foggy's concern, and it was just one more thing to spark the angry creature inside his chest.

Matt went to church. He went to confession, to try to find some relief from the guilt of all of the people he couldn't save. Father Lantom absolved him and, as expected, gave Matt a line about how he couldn't save everyone and had to take care of himself, but it didn't really help. He felt like his skin was getting too soft, his muscles too weak, his whole self becoming useless and delicate while the city cried for help.

He just needed it to _stop_ , and there was only one way he knew to make it.

***

"Want some company for the walk home?" Karen asked, as she had every evening for the last few weeks.

"Not tonight," Matt replied, sliding the paperwork off the desk and into his briefcase. "I think I'm going to go out."

"Want some company for going out?" Foggy called from the other office.

Matt laughed. "Thanks, but I think I can find my own company." Karen responded with a strained giggle as she said her goodbyes and headed out the door, but Foggy just let out an exasperated sigh.

"That prosecutor chick is in town again, right? The hot one from Starling City? I don't suppose she has a friend, or a sister…?"

"I wouldn't know," Matt replied smoothly. "We've never talked about her family." Foggy punched his arm and Matt chuckled. "She's busy tonight anyway, there's a conference going on this weekend."

"Then where are you-- Oh. Oh, Matt, come on, tell me you're not going to do what I think you're going to do."

"I'm not psychic, Foggy, I have no idea what you think I'm going to do."

"Yeah, sure. You forget how we lived together for years. I've seen you like this before, just not-- not since. Not for a while now."

"That's amazingly vague, you know."

"Ugh, you sound like Marci. Just-- don't do anything too stupid, okay?" Matt shrugged, then buttoned up his coat and grabbed his cane, reaching for the door. On his way down the stairs, Foggy called after him, "And use protection!"

***

The weather was nice, so Matt decided to walk rather than take the subway. It was a short walk to Times Square; he figured Foggy would find it less objectionable if he picked someone up at a luxury hotel bar than at a dive somewhere closer to home. Besides, with his hearing still out of whack, the sketchier bars and clubs were a lot more difficult to navigate and the people a lot harder to read. More specifically, if he read someone wrong he was more likely to get beaten up. He considered it for a minute, anyway, but getting beaten up for making a pass at the wrong person didn't seem like the kind of thing that would help.

He ended up at the rooftop bar of a trendy boutique hotel, expensive enough that the guests were likely to be in town only for short stays (unless they were very rich) but with reasonable enough prices in the bar to not blow his entire budget on two drinks. It was also a good place to find the kind of company he was looking for as it was frequented by politicians and international businesspeople, who tended to bring along entourages of bodyguards and mercenaries. Shrugging off his jacket, Matt settled into a seat at the bar and ordered a Manhattan, or at least, the upscale modern version of a Manhattan that the bartender said was on special. He rolled up his sleeves and loosened his tie, then set himself to trying to gather what information he could on his surroundings. It wasn't too crowded; probably because it was Thursday and still early enough in the evening many guests were either out at dinner or the theater. A woman with strong perfume was sitting on the other end of the bar; she smelled like a lot of makeup and a little bit of the stale air of an airplane cabin. Business traveler, probably, but not what he was looking for. A few older men sat at a table, probably on their fourth or fifth round; he didn't have to strain his one good ear to hear their raucous laughter. A group of men and women at a table on the other side were excitedly chattering about their plans to visit the Met the following day.

Matt was halfway through his drink when two men walked in, sitting a couple of seats away from him and ordering top shelf vodka martinis. They clinked their glasses together like they were celebrating something, and he heard one of them make a comment about enjoying their last few nights in town. He considered them while they drank and talked; from the air displacement when they walked in, he was pretty sure they were physically fit, and there was something about the scents surrounding them that Matt categorized as dangerous. He had to concentrate to put his finger on it, but after a little while he was fairly certain he was smelling old blood, the knife one man had in his boot, and the gun the other man had hidden under his jacket. Professionals in some way or another -- private security, secret service, organized crime? There was no way to be sure, but they didn't appear to be here to cause trouble.

That was good, because Matt had trouble of his own he was looking for.

He observed them quietly while they worked through two rounds of drinks, then the man with the gun turned down the offer of a third round and left his friend alone at the bar. Matt knocked back the rest of his drink and walked over, leaning back against the bar next to him, aware of the stretch of his shirt over the muscles of his arms and chest. "Can I buy you that next round?" he offered as the man ordered another drink. Matt couldn't make out a heartbeat with his damaged hearing, but he could still feel body heat fluctuate, and knew he wasn't far off the mark.

There was a brief silence during which Matt assumed the man must have nodded or made some other gesture, and then, "Oh, uh, sure."

Matt passed his credit card to the bartender and ordered another for himself, then stuck out his hand. "I'm Matt," he offered.

"Oliver." Oliver's hand was warm and rough, calloused in an interesting pattern on his fingers.

Matt let his hand linger just long enough for Oliver not to mistake his intentions. "Are you in town for business or pleasure?"

***

"It's been quite a while since I picked a guy up in a bar," Oliver said as the door of his suite shut behind them. "I don't usually have much down time."

"I'm sure you haven't forgotten how this works," Matt replied mildly, setting down his cane. Oliver had led him through the hotel to his room, and he still had his hand tucked into the crook of Oliver's elbow.

"I've, uh, never been with a blind person."

"If you're afraid of hurting me, don't be." Matt took off his glasses and tucked them into the pocket of his jacket, feeling for a table or chair to set it down on. Oliver took the jacket from him and put it down somewhere to his left. Matt turned towards him, closing the space between them and pressing his lips to Oliver's, slowly at first, then more insistently as Oliver responded, open mouthed, pushing his body up against Matt's. Oliver's lips were warm and soft, and the taste of liquor was thick on his tongue. "I've dealt with men like you before."

"What do you mean by that?" Oliver asked, pulling away. His voice was a little tight; Matt had definitely put him on guard somehow. Matt's heart beat a little faster in anticipation, whether of a fight or something else, he wasn't quite sure.

"You're a violent man. I'm sure you know how to get what you want from people."

Oliver moved fast, faster than Matt had been expecting and faster than he could anticipate with his damaged ear. Before he could fight back he was shoved face first into the door, one arm bent up behind his back and Oliver's hand tight around his other wrist. "Who sent you?" Oliver hissed in his ear, voice rough and angry. "Are you working for Waller? Some kind of fucked up A.R.G.U.S. honeypot?"

Matt's pulse jumped and something prickled along his spine. The pain in his shoulder, close to dislocation, was momentarily dizzying; or maybe that was just the blood rushing from his brain down between his legs. An involuntary gasp escaped his lips, and he shifted against the body heat behind him; Oliver clearly still wanted him, despite whoever he thought he was. "I don't know what you're talking about, or who Waller or A.R.G.U.S. are."

"What do you know about me?" Oliver's breath was hot on the shell of his ear, stirring the fine hairs there. Matt was tempted to bait Oliver into a fight because he knew he'd get the kind of beating he'd been itching for, punishment for the people of Hell's Kitchen who were going undefended every night he was off the streets. He'd probably get in a few good shots of his own, but he decided a beating _with_ sex still sounded more tempting than getting knocked out and not even getting to get off. Besides, there was something about the mix of sex and violence that helped him find that one quiet spot in the middle of the clamor of his senses, overwhelming them all into oblivion.

"Your name is Oliver. You've got callouses and scars on your hands -- the kind you get from archery and hand to hand combat. I felt them when you shook my hand earlier. Apparently you're involved in something dangerous because you seem to think I'm a-- a spy or whatever the fuck you are, but I'm really not." Matt kept his tone light, as if the situation was humorous instead of threatening. Oliver was tight up behind him, and Matt pushed his hips back, rubbing against the hot bulge of Oliver's crotch. "You still want to fuck me."

Oliver ground his hips into Matt's ass, simultaneously pulling his arm up tighter behind his back. Matt moaned, low and breathy, and closed his eyes. "Who _are_ you?" Oliver asked, less angry this time, more confused.

"I'm just a guy who wants to get laid. I like it rough."

Oliver let go of his arm, flipped him around again, and kissed him viciously -- too many teeth, stubble tearing across his chin, shoving hard enough to knock Matt's head back against the door. Matt fought back, grabbing Oliver's wrists and spinning them so that Oliver was the one with his back against the wall, wrists pinned on either side of his head. He nipped his way across Oliver's jaw and down to his neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and arousal and tasting the salt of Oliver's skin.

Matt didn't have the upper hand for long. Oliver got his thigh between Matt's, and took advantage of the distraction to twist his wrists out of Matt's grasp and kick Matt's legs out from under him. He landed hard on his back, Oliver crashing on top of him and knocking the wind out of him. "Is that what you want?"

"Yes," Matt gasped. "Don't stop."

Oliver ripped Matt's shirt open, buttons popping off and plinking onto the floor. He let out a low whistle, fingers tracing over the scars marring Matt's ribs and abdomen, lingering on the long one on his left side where he'd been dragged across the floor with Nobu's _kyoketsu-shoge_ embedded in him. "Looks like you get into trouble a lot." He bent down and traced the scar with his tongue; Matt squirmed under him, trying to get something more, something that would _hurt_. He was rewarded by Oliver digging the fingers of his left hand into the more recently healed scars on his right hip, where a knife had slipped through the weaker portion of his body armor. Matt groaned, arching into the touch, hands coming up to skim over Oliver's face: short hair, straight nose, strong jaw covered with at least two days' growth of beard. He found the collar of Oliver's shirt (high quality -- clearly custom tailored and made with expensive cloth) and started unbuttoning it while Oliver moved back up his body, licking and biting at every scar along the way.

Matt pushed the shirt off, fingers catching on a scar on Oliver's left shoulder. He let himself explore Oliver's body with his fingertips, skimming over scars big and small, including one that felt like claws and another that felt like a bite mark. "Guess you get yourself into trouble too," he murmured; Oliver bit him in response.

"I won't ask if you won't," Oliver offered against Matt's mouth, kissing him and then biting his lower lip. Matt jerked his hips upward, seeking friction, but Oliver was already getting off of him. "Up," he ordered, and Matt obeyed, getting to his feet with his shirt dangling loose. Matt took a step forward, but Oliver stopped him with a sharp word. Matt held still while Oliver walked around him, feeling the heat and scrutiny of his gaze even without being able to see it. He shivered when Oliver stopped and rested his hands on Matt's shoulders, fingers curling under the edges of his shirt. "Exactly how rough do you want this to be?"

Matt licked his lips, mind running through all of the scenarios he'd had playing in his head when he decided to come looking for this tonight. "How much do you think you can hurt me?"

Oliver jerked the shirt off Matt's shoulders, twisting it up so that Matt's arms were restrained behind his back. "You don't really want to know. I've been told I have a gift for causing pain." Matt grunted as Oliver kicked the back of his legs, knocking him onto his knees, then gasped as his head was jerked backward by the hair. _Perfect._

"I've been told I have a gift for taking a beating, so I guess we're a good match."

"You know," Oliver said, releasing Matt's hair, "this would be more fun if you put up a fight."

Matt's lips twitched, then he rolled forward, arms still trapped but catching himself on his shoulder, and kicked at Oliver's legs. He actually managed to hit him too, knocking him down, but probably only because Oliver wasn't really expecting the attack. Oliver recovered quickly, but by then Matt had freed his hands from the twisted shirt and gotten to his feet. They grappled, arms grabbing at shoulders and wrists, legs tangling and kicking, heat between their bodies rising. 

Matt didn't realize he'd been led into the bedroom until his knees hit the foot of the bed and he sat down hard on it before realizing he could use it to his advantage. He hooked his legs around Oliver's, grabbed him and rolled backwards, flipping Oliver over his head. Oliver landed flat on his back on the bed, and Matt landed on top of him, straddling his hips. The friction of his slacks against his erection was enough to make Matt's brain short out for a moment, and by then Oliver had one hand on his ass and the other on his neck, pulling him down to lick and bite at his lips and jaw.

Oliver's hands moved to Matt's belt, unbuckling it and sliding it through the loops, and Matt shoved his hips down again in anticipation of finally getting his dick out of his pants. Instead, he was startled by a sudden pain as Oliver brought the belt down on his lower back, just above the waistband of his pants. He cried out when the belt came down again, feeling every stitch in the leather biting into his skin. "Get your pants off," Oliver said, scooting out from under him. Matt fumbled at the fly of his slacks and got another whack with the belt for his clumsiness, then managed to get them down over his hips and off, bringing his underwear with them.

Oliver guided him into place on the bed, face down on the pillows and ass up in the air, then settled behind him and started up a rhythm with the belt. _Swish, thwack_ and Matt could hear Oliver's breathing speeding up behind him, his skin getting hotter with every involuntary sound that escaped Matt's lips. The world started to recede into the sting of each blow, until the whistle of the belt and the slap of it on his skin was all he could hear, until he shivered and gasped when the whoosh of air before the belt even connected prickled at his reddened skin. He could smell the moment that sweat broke out all over Oliver, salty and tangy in the air, and then the belt was tossed aside and Oliver's hands were on his ass, digging into the red welts there until Matt cried out, the cacophony of his senses overloading until they started to evaporate into nothingness, but--

Oliver let go of him, breaking the moment, and Matt panted in big, wet gulps as the haze cleared his mind. He heard the clink of a belt buckle being opened, the zip of a fly and the rustle of Oliver's pants coming off. There was a slide of metal -- the knife finally coming out of Oliver's boot -- and a thunk as he set it on the bedside table. Matt reached out and grabbed Oliver's arm just before he could let go of the knife, and sat up. "Don't put the knife away." He felt Oliver's pulse jump under his fingers, and Oliver slowly picked up the knife again. Trusting a stranger with a knife was probably a monumentally stupid idea, but after the belt Matt had been so close to the searing clarity of emptiness that he would take anything that pushed him back there.

"How'd you know I-- Are you sure about this?"

"You seem like you know how to use that, don't you?"

Oliver didn't reply, but he knocked Matt back on to the bed, holding him down with an arm across his shoulders and his body weight on top of Matt. With his pants off, Oliver's erection rubbed against Matt's, and they both shuddered and rocked together. The cool flat of the blade pressed against Matt's ribs, right over a knotted old scar. Matt shivered in anticipation, closing his eyes and pressing his head back into the pillows. The knife turned, and the thin edge pricked a burning line into his skin; the damaged nerve endings in the scar tissue dulled the sensation but there was still just enough pain.

"Tell me if you want me to stop." Oliver's breath on his cheek was as hot as the blood welling up on his skin, and Matt shook his head convulsively.

"N--aaahh, no, don't s-- don't stop," Matt stuttered, breathing faster as Oliver slid the blade a few millimeters, slicing open his scar. He tried to thrust up against Oliver, but Oliver's weight held him still. Matt grabbed at Oliver's hips, pulling them down instead and getting one of his hands around both their dicks, and was rewarded by Oliver groaning, long and drawn out, and mouthing at Matt's jaw. He took the knife away from the scar and instead traced the tip up Matt's sternum, not pressing enough to cut, just letting Matt feel the tickle of the blade and the smear of his own blood it left behind.

The knife came to rest against his jugular, and Matt swallowed and sped up his hand, twisting it over the tips of their joined dicks to catch the moisture there. Oliver pressed the knife lightly against him, then moved it away again, to prick between his ribs. Matt knew that if Oliver pushed the knife into his body, it would be a straight shot to his heart -- his heart which was beating faster and faster, blood pumping dizzily down to his aching cock, making him lightheaded as his focus narrowed down to the sharp prick of steel on his skin. Matt didn't think Oliver was going to hurt him, but clearly he knew how. The knife was moving again, though, settling flat on another one of Matt's scars, this time on his hip. Matt's breath caught in his throat as Oliver turned the edge of the blade inward, preparing for another shallow cut. The pain was exquisite --

But it wasn't enough.

Matt twisted his hips, forcing the blade in deeper. He clenched his fist reactively as a jolt traveled up his nervous system from his hip to his brain and back down to his dick, which he jerked roughly two times, three-- and then release, blazing out through his body, leaving him suspended in emptiness for a pure, blissful moment. He was dimly aware of Oliver yanking the knife out of the way with a startled shout, but it was like hearing underwater, everything muffled even more than it was by his bad ear.

The knife clattered to the floor and Oliver's hand pressed hard against Matt's hip, applying pressure to the wound. "S-- Sorry," Matt said, when he started to regain awareness. "It's fine, I'm fine, I just needed-- Sorry."

"Jesus. I get it, okay, but you could have warned me. I might have seriously hurt you." Oliver grabbed Matt's clean hand (still trembling) to replace his own on the cut and climbed off the bed. "I'm going to get some bandages."

"I'm fine, really, you don't--"

"I don't want blood all over the sheets."

Matt sighed and gave in, still in a haze while Oliver moved around the room. The bed shifted when his weight returned to it, and then he was moving Matt's hand aside to check the wound. It wasn't as bad as it might have been and the blood was already clotting, flow slowing to a thick ooze. Oliver wiped the blood away with a warm, wet cloth, then held the skin together and applied butterfly stitches to it before taping a gauze pad in place over the top. He bandaged the other cut too though it was really no worse than a papercut, then used the cloth to clean all the remaining traces of blood off the two of them, along with the cooling mess of Matt's come.

"Thanks," Matt offered when Oliver returned from putting away his medical supplies. He decided it was better not to ask why Oliver was carrying around a first aid kit, and instead sat up and put a hand on Oliver's thigh. "Let me make it up to you?"

Oliver hesitated, then climbed back onto the bed, laying back against the pillows. Matt levered himself up on top, kissing Oliver's neck, his collarbones, his chest, dipping his tongue into his navel, then moving down to nip at Oliver's hips and inner thighs. Oliver's scent was thicker down here, musky and heady, and it was almost a relief to finally get his dick into his mouth and taste it up close. Oliver was only half hard, his erection having flagged during the impromptu first aid session, but as Matt closed his eyes and slid his tongue against the underside, it thickened and hardened in his mouth. Matt rested his fingertips on the veins in Oliver's thighs, feeling the pulse he couldn't quite hear to complete the feedback loop he relied on whenever he pleasured someone. He experimented with different techniques, licking, sucking, kissing, taking Oliver deep and shallow, fast and slow, until he found what made Oliver gasp and squirm, his pulse picking up rapidly.

Matt brought Oliver to the edge, cursing and moaning and grabbing at the sheets, then backed off abruptly, pulling off his mouth and leaving Oliver hanging. "Fuck, you fucking--" Oliver muttered, hips lifting off the bed uselessly.

Matt grinned. "Trust me, I know what I'm doing. Sucks now but it'll be that much better later." Oliver made a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh, then reached for Matt's head. He grabbed Matt's hair with one hand to hold him in place, then there were two fingers pressing at Matt's lips. He opened his mouth and took them in, licking and sucking, and the hand in his hair squeezed tighter.

"Your mouth is incredible," Oliver said as his fingers slid out with a slow, wet pop. "Get on the floor, on your knees." Matt slid off the bed, relishing the twinge as the motion pulled at the bandages on his hip. The carpet was rough against his knees, and he licked his lips as Oliver moved to stand before him. "Hands behind your back," Oliver ordered, and Matt crossed his hands at the wrists, spreading his legs a little wider for stability. His dick twitched a little, starting to take an interest in things again.

Oliver grabbed the back of Matt's head again, then rubbed the head of his cock over Matt's lips, back and forth, nudging them gently apart with hot, silky skin. The beat of Oliver's blood through his arteries ticked rhythmically against his hypersensitive lips, but when Matt opened his mouth to take him in again, Oliver pulled away. "After your stunt earlier, I think maybe you can do what _I_ want for a while. And I didn't tell you to open yet." Matt obediently shut his mouth, trying to ignore the fact that his dick was clearly in favor of Oliver taking control. He'd come out tonight to get off, sure, but mostly he'd come out to get hurt -- not to be dominated.

Oliver's cock was rubbing at his lips again, tracing the borders, occasionally sliding up his cheek. Matt kept his mouth closed when Oliver started pushing directly at the seam of his lips, until a hand came around to squeeze the joints of his jaw and Oliver whispered, "Open up. Do that thing with your tongue you were doing before."

Matt flattened his tongue along the underside of Oliver's dick as it slid back into his mouth, all the way to the back of his throat, pulling back only when his gag reflex started to kick in. Oliver fucked his mouth slowly, giving Matt the time and space to swirl his tongue around the tip every time he withdrew, letting Matt's lips start to tingle from the repetitive friction and his jaw start to ache from the stretch. He kept at it for a long time, longer than Matt expected him to hold out, then finally Oliver's breathing started to get harder, and two hands cupped the back of Matt's head to keep him still while Oliver fucked him faster and harder.

The sounds Oliver was making were enough to bring Matt's cock back to half-mast, and he embraced the ache in his jaw and tightened down the seal of his lips and tongue in order to hear more of them. He could feel Oliver's cock swelling in his mouth, blood beating faster, and then Oliver's hands tightened in his hair and a hot stream of salty come hit his tongue before Oliver yanked his head back and finished on his face, with a gorgeous moan that made Matt wish he could have gotten off again just so he could hear that sound while he came. Matt's mouth was open, panting as Oliver rubbed his dick in his own come, spreading it over Matt's cheek and lips; there was a thump of Oliver's knees hitting the floor, and then his mouth was on Matt's, kissing him savagely.

When they came up for air, Oliver rested his forehead against Matt's for a moment, breathing hard, then sat back on his heels. "I should come to New York more often," Oliver said. Matt laughed.

"I think you just came in New York plenty," he said, wiping his cheek with one hand and making a face at the mess. Oliver groaned.

"That's horrible."

***

Matt left the hotel a little disheveled, hiding his missing buttons under a tightly closed jacket, but feeling better than he had in weeks. The stinging in his hip and side and the ache in his jaw felt like a benediction, better than any he received in Mass or confession. Not as righteous as beating a criminal's face in, not as penitent as being beaten himself, but it was enough, maybe, to hold him just a couple more weeks until his ear was back to normal and he could get back out on the street -- until he could let the Devil loose again.

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [misswonderheart](http://misswonderheart.tumblr.com) for beta and cheerleading! Also to the folks in my Daredevil group chat for putting up with my talking about this fic all the time and helping me out with the switch between crossover and OC.


End file.
